


Sleepless nights

by ididitforthedogs



Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Oops, this ended up more angsty than i had expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 02:15:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15898860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ididitforthedogs/pseuds/ididitforthedogs
Summary: It's the night before Maggie confronts Tariq. There's only one bed, the AC is broken, and Maxwell can't sleep.





	Sleepless nights

It was sweltering hot. The AC had apparently broken under the stress of the heatwave -yay, climate change!- and the solitary fan on the ceiling could only do so much. If he had been alone, Maxwell could have stripped entirely naked, but there was no way he could now with Maggie sleeping the bed next to him. She had on a tank top and gym shorts, the hem of the top riding up to expose a belly button. It was too hot for sheets. One hand dangled over the side of the bed, open and exposed to the monsters under the bed. No, Maxwell thought, no monsters under the bed. Just one lying next to it. He flipped from his back onto his stomach before it could think anymore. If the Beaumonts had money, they could have paid for two hotel rooms. If King Tyler hadn’t been here, the hotel wouldn’t be out of rollaway beds for Maxwell to sleep on. If Maggie hadn’t been framed by Constantine, he wouldn’t be stuck in this situation to begin with—laying on the floor, wide awake, next to Maggie, single, blissfully asleep and unaware of the thoughts that chased around in his head.

He splayed out like a starfish on the quilt on the floor the hotel had managed to find, face smushed into a spare pillow. Go to sleep, he ordered himself. But he didn't. Maxwell never slept much anyway— his mind could never calm down long enough, each thought racing through, followed by the next, and the next, and the next. Not like Maggie, who could have slept forever if he didn't wake her up in the morning. He envied her for that. 

He envied her for a lot of things.

Nope, not a good thought. Maxwell flipped back over and watched the spokes of the fan spin and tried counting each rotation. He got bored after fifteen.

He stood up, careful to be quiet even though he knew there was no way Maggie would wake up. Someone mornings he could knock for five minutes before she finally opened the door, bleary eyed stare through her glasses and blue hair a halo around her head. Like an angel. Like how it must look when she laid in bed, her face—

Nope. Not again. He started pacing. If this were home he could have gone for a run. He could have practiced his breakdancing. He could have gotten completely blackout drunk and forgotten about the whole ordeal. Something to keep his thoughts from spinning. This wasn't home. This was Maggie's home. Maggie. He was back to Maggie. He always came back to Maggie.

He checked his phone. 3:04 am. Still only 9% battery. Stupid shit phone, he thought. Couldn’t keep a charge. Could have bought a new one if Bertrand hadn't knocked up Savannah. No. That was mean. It was true, though.

Savannah. Drake. Lying, by omission at least. Maxwell was struck by a sudden burst of guilt so heavy he sat on his quilt, running his fingers through his hair. It wasn't his secret to tell. Maggie had reminded him of that. He was just respecting Savannah's wishes. He wanted to let her think she had won, so he had just nodded. But he could have tried harder to change her mind. At least to tell Drake. But then again, Maxwell had always been very good at keeping secrets.

_Thwump_. Something hit him in the face and covered his vision. He jolted, imagining assassins or something equally exciting and far-fetched. He clawed at his face to reveal... Shorts? Maggie's shorts. 

Slowly, Maxwell dragged his gaze to her sleeping form, traveling up from her feet, up her leg, to the curve of her thigh, to-

He looked away, flushing. At least she still had underwear on. Or, a shame she still had it? No, at least. He only wanted to see it if Maggie showed him. No, he didn't want to see it at all. This was all for King Tyler. Not spare to the heir of a bankrupt dukedom.

Her breathing was still deep and even, the kind of relaxing lullaby someone could grow used to. She had been so hot that she had thrown off her shorts in her sleep.

He was still clutching the shorts with the kind of tight grip as a drowning man clings to a life raft. He could have woken her up with a dozen different witty remarks about throwing her clothes around and waiting for Tyler. But not now. He placed her shorts at the end of the bed. No, that wouldn't do, she would notice that they had been placed there neatly and wonder. Should he try to put the shorts back on? He thought maybe he could do it without waking her up, sliding his fingers up her thighs— nope. Bad idea. Bad idea, Maxwell, he told himself, the phrase bouncing around in his brain. Bad idea, Maxwell. Finally he decided to drop them on the other side of the bed, as if she had thrown them there. Bad idea, Maxwell. Bad idea, Maxwell.

He paced. Checked his phone. 3:16 am. 10% battery. Piece of junk couldn't charge any slower. He could have used it, stared at the glowing screen until his eyes hurt so badly he had to shut them long enough for sleep to claim him. Too late for that. They had an early morning tomorrow to find Tariq, force him to confess, and publicize it. And then Maggie's name would be cleared and she would be free to marry King Tyler. His friend, Tyler. His friend, Tyler. His friend, Tyler now bouncing around in his head instead of Bad idea, Maxwell. This was better, but only slightly. He had brought her here to win over Tyler. There was no reason for him to be upset that she had succeeded.

He laid back down on the quilt, staring up at Maggie's outstretched arm again. What would it be like to hold it? To brush his fingers over her knuckles? More than just guiding her in a dance, but touching her just to feel her skin underneath his fingers, or the palm of her hand pressed against him.

Her hand, dangling above him. Hot and sweaty as he was, as she was, he wanted to crawl in bed with her. Wrap his arms around her and never let go. Her hand twitched, and she pulled it back from the edge of the bed. Safer, that way. For both of them.

He watched the spinning ceiling fan, eyes burning, until they finally closed of their own volition.

\-----------------------------------------------

Maxwell woke up three hours later with a massive pain in his neck and back. Shit, he thought, as he tried to rub his own back. As he sat up, he saw Maggie still stretched across the bed, still in her underwear and a tank top that had been stretched down while she slept and— He looked away. Shit. This was not helping the other problem that had woken up with him.

He stood under the showerhead, looking at the tiled wall but seeing Maggie, head on a pillow with her hair spilling around, shirtless with her breasts exposed, her nipples pink and hard and they would be so much fun to lick—

No, this wasn't helping. The shower was supposed to clear his mind but of course his thoughts did whatever they wanted, and they wanted Maggie. Maggie, who he had held and danced with and fake proposed to and talked and laughed with for so long, life before her seemed faded in comparison. Whose lips were so softly pink without her dark lipstick, right there in the next room and so damn kissable. 

You're the worst, Maxwell, his mind told him. The worst, the worst, the worst. He shut the water off, toweled dry, and stepped outside the bathroom to get his clothes.

Maggie picked her head off her pillow and looked at him sleepily. “Thought I heard the shower going.”

“I’m surprised you’re awake,” he said, turning his head from her askew shirt to grab his clothes.

“I’m excited. I think. Or nervous.” She fumbled for her glasses and put them on. “Hippo,” she said, looking at his tattoo.

He tapped his hippo tattoo with his fist twice. “Hippo forever.” He loved that she hadn’t laughed when she first saw it, instead listened to his explanation, and then smiled so softly his stomach hurt. He ducked into the bathroom to get dressed. 

As he buttoned up his black shirt, he heard laughter from the next room. “Why the hell are my shorts on the floor?”

“Probably having a fun dream,” he called back.

“Yeah, then why don’t I remember it?” she replied. 

“Must have been about Tyler,” he said, ignoring the twinge in his stomach.

Her response was much quieter. “Hah. Yeah.”

He stepped out of the bathroom. “Your turn, future queen of Cordonia.”

She smacked his shoulder as she walked inside. “You have got to stop calling me that.”

He was never going to stop calling her that. Each time he said it, it was a reminder to him: she loves Tyler, she’s here for Tyler, we’re friends, and all of this is a Bad idea, Maxwell. Bad idea, Maxwell. 

He flopped onto the bed and picked up his phone. 56%. That was doable. He flicked through Twitter and Facebook as Maggie took another one of her long showers, trying to focus on the tweets instead of the fact that she was standing several feet away, completely naked. He reread a tweet about a cute animal twelve times before the words finally sank into his brain, but it was better than the alternative. 

Maggie finally emerged in her incognito outfit, pulling down the shoulders of the gray sweater as she did so. Her sunglasses were on top of her head, pushing back most of her hair, though a few locks still escaped and curled around her face.

He smiled at her as he got off the bed and headed to the door. “Now that’s the look of a woman who’s about to clear her name.”

Her smile back was wide and genuine. She stepped closer to him, reached for his hand, thought better of it, and let it fall to the side again. He watched as her fingers twisted around themselves, instead of around his.

He missed how she used to touch him. Before the social season grew more serious. Before late nights with Tyler and meetings that he had helped arrange. Not a good thought.

“Maxwell… Thank you. For teaching me all of the courtly behavior. For working so hard to clear my name. For calling about a million shoe stores. For... well, everything.” She looked deep into his eyes, serious with a touch of some other emotion he couldn’t name.

He wanted to badly to take her hand, to reach out and touch it as he had imagined last night. Tomorrow she could be engaged, he thought, and then he grabbed her left hand with his right despite everything in his head telling him he shouldn’t. “Anything for you… you’re a Beaumont, after all. You’re one of us.”

Her grip tightened on his hand. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, smiled, then opened it again. “Okay, Maxwell. Let’s blow this popsicle joint.”

He let his hand slide from her grip. “After you,” he said, with a slight, ironic bow.

Maggie turned and walked out the door, while the thought still reverberated around his head: Bad idea, Maxwell. Bad idea, Maxwell.


End file.
